A Medium World

It's happening again.

The 'I-have-no-career-angst.'

For a few months now it wasn't such a big deal.  I was kept super busy whether I liked it or not and while I would occasionally think about whether I wanted to be a 'stay-at-home-mom' (*gasp*) I didn't have the luxury of lingering on the thought for too long.

I was having conversations/complainings with other mums and I didn't feel left out of the world. Amazing how pooping, eating, sleeping, playing, teething can make you feel included.

But now that time is coming to an end.

I always knew it would.

Now the conversations are about going back to work, conversations with bosses, nurseries, nannies, child minders, work clothes, commuting. And once again I am no longer part of the world.

My world has suddenly shrunk down to Mr. Man and our little routine and our little life.

Sometimes I despair. Days when nothing keeps him entertained and I haven't peed on my own in weeks and I'm wearing the same outfit of stretch jeans, slippers, and ill-fitting jumpers for the fifth day running, I despair. When I realize I haven't had a conversation with anyone over an age counted in months for an entire day, I despair. When I occasionally meet new people and they inevitably ask 'what do you do?' and I watch their eyes search for someone else to when my answer includes the word 'kid,' I despair. Sometimes I even feel left out of my husband's life. I am so focused on this little human I don't have the energy left for anyone else, my husband and myself included. And I despair.

If having this little guy has taught me anything it is that life is dynamic. It will change and shift and drag you along. Sometimes kicking and screaming, sometimes unknowingly.

Sometimes I long for the luxury of lingering over a cup of coffee (okay, every morning) and being part of a bigger world of having a little something for myself of being able to carry a conversation that doesn't deal with stages of human development.

And then my son gets bored of his current toy, climbs into my lap and snuggles in to suck his thumb and watch some cartoons.


Maybe just a medium world, then.

Sometimes

Friday was a good day.

It was a good day in that nothing-special-happened-but-life-is-good way.

Naps went well. (This element is always a factor in whether or not a day is 'good' or 'rough.') We played easily with no forced engagement on either side. I got some chores done and managed to do something for myself during naptime. I ate regularly and even missed my son a bit when his nap ran long.

It was a good day.

I didn't once reminisce about my life pre-baby or wonder what it will become. I wasn't planning beyond the next few hours and I think I even smiled a bit to myself.

Life was good and I enjoyed it.

Returning to you

On the first day of this year I took a bath.

A bath.

Amazing.

I was probably only submerged for as long as it took to fill the tub (these free-standing claw-foot tubs are fabulous but take ages to fill) but it was long enough and hot enough to activate my deodorant.  I read a three page article while bath toys trapped in their mesh bag floated at my feet and the IKEA crocodile bath mat embedded squares in my soft backside.

Amazing.


Next week my little boy will be eight months old.

Eight months.

That time is marked by a visible increase in my silver highlights and eye cream consumption.  The majority of which can be attributed to a *lovely* sleep regression four months ago which lasted six weeks and probably took six years off our lives.  There is nothing more soul-destroying than your baby waking up five or six times a night (each wake-up lasting about an hour) for weeks on end.

Two words: SLEEP & TRAINING

If you pick the right time, which is usually just about the time you seriously consider going on holiday and leaving the baby to fend for itself (I mean you're pricing up tickets online serious), it isn't too bad.  I mean it's never easy to listen to your child cry, we went in periodically to sing and pat and say 'there, there,' but when we finally decided to go for it, it only took two nights.

You may have noticed I stopped writing about four months ago.  Coincidence? I think not.


However lack of sleep is the only culprit.  The halt in writing also coincides with an identity crisis.

I didn't make many declarations about the kind of mom I planned to be before Pruin was born.  I figured I would lessen my inevitable mommy-guilt.  However, one thing I did declare was to not loose my identity in my child.  For example, I would never make any 'profile photo' a photo of my son.  I would not refer to myself as Pruin's mom.  It's a small thing, but it felt important to me.  It took me until after the regression (almost five months) to allow myself to put a photo of my son as a background on my phone.  Which still seems silly as I see him every waking moment of my life.  However, when those waking moments are a little too much it is nice to have a reminder that he is cute sometimes.

I can hear all you parents laughing at me. Go on. I will probably do the same to those that come after me.

What I realize now is that it is impossible to not loose yourself in your new baby.  Especially if you are parenting without any family/friend help.  Not because they are too cute and squishy and wonderful (which they are when they are sleeping) but because they require every ounce of your being, body and soul and mind.  I don't want this space to turn into constant complaints about the slog that is early parenthood but in case you haven't experienced this particular life experience let me just cut to the point and say it can be pretty grim and at times even the smiles and giggles and amazing moments of watching this thing become a person aren't enough to keep you going. When you're shaking with rage and exhaustion at 4am, a smile is not enough.

But time ticks away and suddenly it's time for the next step, whatever that may be, and you find some more energy and patience as you dive/stumble into this next phase.  You have new things to stress over and the list from before seems to take care of itself as you obsess over purees or crawling or whatever.

It's at this point that you also realize that it might be time for you to take some time for yourself.  Get that baby out of the baby bath and into the big tub so the possibility of taking a relaxing grown up bath is actually a reality that won't require shifting too much baby stuff.  Take back that glorious free-standing tub.  Go out and face those changing rooms and get yourself a pair of jeans without elastic tummy panels. Yes, I'm still wearing my maternity jeans.  I haven't been able to face a changing room and discovering that my shape has forever changed and I no longer have any idea which brand of jeans, let alone size, will now fit.

But I made myself find the time to write and I took a bath for purely relaxation purposes.  So that's something.

Mum Life

Thursday night I got a taste of what it's like to be a mum.  Odd to say since I have technically been a mum for 21 weeks but that night it got real.  The baby was at the tail end of his cold, still fussy and sicky, but generally a happy chappy.  The husband came home sick.  At first I thought it was a case of man-flu.  

Within a half-hour I was feeling a right bitch and wetting muslins.  He had proper chills with uncontrollable shaking and a wicked fever high enough for me to consider a hospital visit.  I semi-rushed through the baby's night routine attempting to maintain a sense of calm and sending out signals that everything is okay, Daddy is just not helping tonight, but EVERYTHING IS OKAY.

Then I turned my attention to husband violently shivering under a duvet on the couch. I have no idea what to do to break a fever.  Do I feed it, starve it, stuff it in a bath, or a bag?  I can never remember the catchy phrases when it's crunch time.  

I Google it.  

Turns out he shouldn't be under the duvet or drinking juice or necessarily eating the emergency pizza I heated up.  

To add to my stress, our expensive, top of the line, baby monitor crapped out the night before so I'm just hoping the baby decides tonight is the night to sleep a bit more peacefully. Failing that, our house isn't that big, I'll hear him scream if he's really upset.  It's time he learns to settle himself anyway at the ripe old age of 4 and a bit months, right?  

Luckily, the baby is quite for now.  I make up the spare bed and coax husband off the couch, up the stairs and into bed. I leave him with some water, paracetemol, a bucket and his phone to text me if he needs anything.  

Back downstairs I scarf down some cold pizza and make myself a bourbon.  I catch the bead of liquid running down the side of the bottle on my finger, at £30 a bottle it's precious stuff.  Instead of a smooth oaky nectar I get sickly sweet strawberry.

Calpol.

I sip my bourbon, absently watching whatever channel was absently left on in the midst of the evening.  I think about how I have no idea what I am doing, thank the universe for Google, and decide to head up to bed.

Before I pull up the duvet I do the rounds.  Husband's fever is still raging, but the violent chills have left.  No hospital trip, then.  I leave him with a promise that I will check on him every time I'm up with the baby.  Next stop, nursery.  Baby is still breathing and seems peaceful enough.

Day is done.
All is well.
Safely Rest.

As I snuggle into bed, somewhat relaxed and calm, confident I made it through, I glance at the clock.

It was only 9pm.


The long night was still before me.  The frazzled mom montage was only paused, a brief respite before my 'Groundhog Day' began again.

Month Four

This is the month I fell in love with my son.

This is the month I seriously considered giving him back.  

These two feelings are strongly linked.  It's hard to admit motherhood might be a bit too hard when you aren't sure you love the thing giving you crow's feet and melting your brain.  Once that thing giggles and naked-rolls it's way into your heart you don't feel like such a monster saying you need some time off.  

I need some time off.  

Better yet, I need more than two hours of consecutive sleep.  

baby unibrow & mum's crazy eyes with extra bags

"Things get better after three months, trust me."

I now know this statement's only purpose is to keep new parents from devouring their young.

We have hit some milestones this month.  Rolling is one of them.  Sleeping well at night is not.  Napping is better but they only last 20 minutes which is just enough time for me to get in and out of the bathroom, throw some wet, forgotten laundry back into the washer, and maybe stuff some cold leftovers in my face.  

We also now have a schedule of activities for the week.  These are great for distracting Pruin and giving him something other than me to look at for at least 30 minutes.  Theses are also great for building Pruin's immune system.  We are currently experiencing our first baby cold courtesy of the noise-making toys passed around at library song time.  A bucket full of toys slobbered and sneezed and puked on by a variety of children and then safely stored away to incubate for another week.  Every time they come around I am loathe to accept but also don't want to be 'that' mom sanitizing everything her baby touches.  I mean, the kid chews his toes directly after sticking them in the mess that is his nappy.  I really can't be too precious when it comes to germs.  

In a lot of ways this month feels like a huge step backwards.  Sleep has gone from iffy to bad and mummy has gone from high functioning multi-tasker to blank stare baby-babbler.  Sleep is always the measuring stick.  If sleep is going wrong we forget all the amazing things the baby is doing 'right.'  I take it personally that my child isn't sleeping.  As over-achievers it is hard to accept that our little one can't figure out how to sleep and we can't figure out how to help him.

We are obsessed.
We are very tired.
We have aged five years in four months.
We are probably making it worse.


But even on my worst sleep deprived mornings when I've had a total of three hours of sleep and have to take an exam about Life in the UK or spend the morning at the embassy proving I'm an American, I could never devour this little guy.  He's too damn cute (and cannibalism is seriously frowned upon in both the UK and America).

Month Three

We are now in that month in which everyone assured us 'things' would get better.

Better is subjective.


Feeding is easier but it also has a new angle now that Pruin is aware of the world and wants to see it all, even while feeding.

Sleeping is quieter but still unpredictable and nap training is even harder with three months of sleep deprivation under one's belt.  We are actively encouraging 'bad' habits just so we can all get a bit of sleep.

Additionally, now he wants to play and mummy isn't great at entertaining when it doesn't involve cocktail shakers and amusing anecdotes.

The books say mummy should be fully healed and recovered from the delivery and resuming moderate exercise.


Who are these people writing these books?

At three months it still hasn't sunk in that we are parents to this little person.  We are responsible for keeping him fed and dry and happy.  No one is coming to tell us we have done enough and done well, they'll take over from here and we can go back to our previously scheduled life.

Simultaneously, I am acutely aware that his sleeping and eating habits rest solely on my shoulders.  Teaching him to eat and nap 'properly' is all on me.  No matter how supportive and involved Pete is (and he is both) in these first months it's mummy who sets the tone and schedule for the day.  It's mummy who enforces (or, more likely, gives in) and decides which battles are worth fighting and which are worth leaving for another month.

Is it the worst thing in the world to feed him into his morning nap or lay down with him for his late afternoon nap?  These are some of the 'bad' habits I am encouraging but at this point I'm just happy if we get some sleep that doesn't involve screaming.  Although we have a lot of that as well.


It doesn't get better.

It gets harder.  There are more balls in the air with every passing day.

It also gets more rewarding.  We are watching him become a person.


And that makes the 'failures' in sleeping and eating that much harder to accept.

Mother's Hands

This is the week I realized my life took a turn I expected but is still unexpected.

I think it began with my hands.

Each morning I bring Pruin into bed with me for his last few hours of sleep.  He smiles and giggles and strains and yawns.  There he lies squirming with my hand on his chest until he gives in to sleep.  My hand reminds me how small he still is despite his growth spurts and weight gain.  My hand almost covers his entire torso, proving comfort to both him and I.

My hand is brown and spidery next to his fresh, smooth skin reminding me of the song from which we took his nickname.  It bears the scars of my life's adventures.  A life which indirectly led to these mornings.  It looks 'old.' But everything looks 'old' next to his newness.

Some days feel never-ending.  I long for bedtime only to dread it when I finally put my head down.  There's no knowing how long I have until he needs me again.  Other days flash by and he suddenly no longer fits into his newborn clothes.  What remains constant are the days themselves.  Everyday is just a copy of the one before with minor variation.  It isn't until I look back that I see where 'progress' has been made.  Although what we are progressing toward is still foggy.  Everyday I begin again with no real clue about what I am working toward.  There is no hard deadline.  The benchmarks are vague and only visible once you pass them.

I still don't think of myself as a mother (Despite referring to myself in the third person as 'mummy.'  And not just to Pruin but to adults and in conversations not pertaining to babies or parenting. A thing which I said I would never do. The first of many, I fear).  Yes, I know I have this little Pruin to take care of daily, but the identity of 'mummy' hasn't fixed itself to my brain as of yet.

Or, more likely, my pre-Pruin ideas of what 'mother' meant haven't materialized and so this new life seems, well, unexpected.

I keep trying to fit Pruin into my life.  Trying to hold on to what I was and did before...him.

Inevitably, I fail.  Instead, I find I have to craft a new life.  Keeping important and meaningful bits from before and letting the rest fall away.  Or maybe just packing it away for later.  Not unlike preparing for a move or spring cleaning but with less tangible clutter.

At times my hands itch to be free of his.  To do their own thing as they did before he arrived.  But this little man has a tight grip.  If I can't find a way to do it one-handed, it will have to wait.  Maybe forever, but hopefully not.